


Pour Your Sweetness Over Me

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Bee!Jon, Cum Shower, Food fixation, Jon is very small and has very small thoughts, M/M, Macro/Micro, Object Insertion, Stuffing, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29742756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: “Are you hungry?” asks Elias. “I’m sure this ordeal has taken a lot out of you. You are such alittlething, after all.”Something in Jon feels like he should bristle at that comment, but it’s true. Heisa little thing, and it doesn’t seem sensible to object, even if he was capable of forming the words to do so. He jams his fingers further into his mouth, chasing the last traces of sweetness.*Jon reads a book that leave him in an altered state. Lucky Elias is around to help take care of him.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 25
Kudos: 124





	Pour Your Sweetness Over Me

**Author's Note:**

> Plot summary: Jon gets turned into a tiny bee-like creature, and Elias gets horny about it. It's been a weird sort of week, guys.
> 
> Title from "Sugar, Sugar" by The Archies.
> 
> Huge thanks to fatal_drum for their always fantastic beta work!
> 
> Terms used for Jon's anatomy: tits, cock, cunt.

There’s something wrong. It’s not anything he can grasp a firm hold of, just an odd feeling of displacement, as if there’s been some shift in the universe that he can’t quite identify.

He feels...strange.

He also feels thirsty. He licks his lips, and reaches out for where his mug of tea should be sitting. It’s not right, though. There is a mug standing nearby, but it is _enormous,_ a monolith that towers far above him. No way he’s going to be able to reach the tea. He kicks his legs despondently. 

He is sitting on the edge of...something, his legs hanging down. His hands are resting on a surface, which is dry, soft, and slightly yielding. The smell of it is familiar. Below his dangling feet is a polished wooden floor. Just a little hop. He considers. Explore what he’s sitting on, or jump down? _First one,_ he decides, _then the other._ That seems logical.

Standing up poses a challenge. He feels off balance, something weighing him down from behind so that he almost falls backwards. He looks over his shoulder and sees the cause: a large, round protuberance jutting out. It is furry, striped in brown and gold. He frowns. That’s not usual, he’s sure. Is it part of him? He tries to wiggle it, and it wiggles, so it must be. 

The word “abdomen” comes to mind, but he doesn’t think that’s right, because he already _has_ an abdomen, doesn’t he? That’s where the organs are, and he’s fairly sure he had organs before. He looks down in front and sees that he’s covered all over in golden fur. He runs a hand over his belly; the fur is very soft. Everything else appears normal, although he’s aware that he’s a bit vague on what “normal” is supposed to be, so he’ll consider that a provisional judgment. 

He takes a few steps along the yielding surface. Its color is off-white, almost yellow, but ahead of him it is covered in row after row of black shapes, filling it almost from edge to edge. Letters, he realizes. No, more than letters; _words._ The surface is covered in writing, and as he comes to that realization, another clicks into place. 

This is a _book._

How strange, for a book to be this large. They’re usually small—certainly smaller than he is. He’s fairly confident of that. Off to his left he can see a shorter row of letters, standing apart from the others: the title header. He walks over to take a look. It’s difficult to read when the letters are so big, but if he steps back far enough and squints _(where are his glasses?)_ he can make it out. 

**The Hive & The Honeybee**

That doesn’t tell him much. He sighs, and looks around, squinting to see what else he can see. There’s the book, and the inconveniently large mug of tea, and what looks like a towering stack of papers. Farther away, he can see the smooth, metallic cylinder of a pen. Very, _very_ far away, he can see what look like walls, stretching up almost beyond comprehension. One of them is set with a proportionally massive door. They seem so distant they’re scarcely real, far too distant to worry about. 

He turns his attention back to his immediate surroundings. He’s still thirsty; perhaps if he walks to the mug, he can figure out a way to scale it. 

Something flutters against his back as he hops down from the book to the wooden surface below. Startled, he cranes his neck as far as he can, and sees two sets of wings growing from between his shoulders. They are thin and transparent, and he wonders if they’re even strong enough to lift his weight. He’s reasonably sure those are new as well. How do they even work? As he wonders that, the wings begin to move, whirring so rapidly that they blur and buzz. 

_Oh,_ he thinks, _that’s quite easy._

Just as he’s considering whether he might try to fly to the top of the mug, there is a ponderous creak, and he turns to see that distant door swinging open with a _swoosh_ of wind that almost sends him stumbling. A huge figure is framed in the doorway. It approaches, the door closing in its wake, until it looms ominously over him. 

“My, you really have got yourself into a predicament, haven’t you?” 

He blinks up at the face. Its planes and crevices are vast, inscrutable, but there is something familiar about its shape and the tone of its voice. The gray eyes looking down at him hold a gleam of amusement. 

“Well, Jon, do you have anything to say for yourself?” 

_Jon._ That’s him, he's quite sure, although he hasn’t thought to wonder about it until now. He has the oddest feeling that _Jon_ was different, though. Larger? Or maybe more afraid? He’s not sure. He isn’t afraid now, despite the enormous scale of the man standing over him. All his emotions seem smaller than he remembers them being, as if it’s hard to feel strongly about anything. 

Jon opens his mouth to say something for himself, as the man demanded. All that comes out, however, is a wordless, squeaky noise of defiance. He frowns, and tries again; another squeak. He can understand the language being spoken to him, and he’s sure he _used_ to be in command of it, yet somehow his thoughts refuse to resolve themselves into words. He tries one last time, and another wordless sound comes out, this one a high pitched grumble. Jon sighs. 

“How fascinating,” the man says. He reaches out with a vast tree trunk of an arm, and lifts the book Jon was so recently seated on. The gaping slash of his mouth curves into a smile as he examines its cover.

“Of course the author of the original book was L. L. Langstroth, not 'A. Mellifera.' Honestly, it’s as if they hardly _try_ with some of these. You really should be more careful when investigating a case, you know. Just because it doesn’t have a Leitner nameplate on it doesn’t mean it’s safe.” 

The word “Leitner” strikes a note of alarm in Jon’s mind, and he fumbles for a reason why, an awareness of what it means. _Danger,_ he thinks. The thought spools through his brain, but there's nothing for it to catch on, no hook of comprehension. In a moment it's gone again, taking that vague sense of alarm with it. Jon watches with mild curiosity as the man tucks the book beneath his arm, and leans close to him again. 

“You’d better come with me,” the man says. “We don’t you getting swatted, now, do we?”

He reaches down with a huge hand as if to scoop Jon into his palm. Jon growls a warning, twists instinctively so his back is towards the man, his round, striped rump lifting in what feels like a threat. He isn’t sure why, but he doesn’t want this man to touch him. 

“Now, now,” the man chides. “I don’t much enjoy being stung, but you’ll come off rather worse in the exchange, you know. We’ll do it the other way, then.” He reaches past Jon again and lifts up the towering tea mug. Before Jon can react, it is upended over him, drenching him with the dregs of the tea and plunging him into darkness. 

He doesn’t panic, precisely, but the awareness that he is trapped sends something ticking over in his brain, fills him with the single-minded certainty that he does not want to be where he is. He bumps against the wall of the mug as hard as he can. It doesn’t move, so he does it again, and again. He is soaked and shivering—the tea was cold—and the dark space is suffused with the smell of it, earthy and intensely sweet. _Martin always adds extra sugar,_ he thinks, but the thought is ephemeral, fleeting, and he can’t grasp it for long enough to even wonder what it means. 

Something slaps against his feet, tripping him, and he realizes that the man has slid a sheet of paper under the mug. His stomach lurches as his prison is hoisted into the air, his wings fluttering for balance with each lumbering footstep beneath him. After a short time the man stops; Jon hears voices, muffled but comprehensible. 

“Hi Elias, were you just in to see Jon? I don’t think he’s in his office at the moment, actually—”

“No, he’s gone home for the day. He wasn’t...feeling himself. You might let the others know?”

“Of course, no problem! Umm, would you like me to take that mug for you? It probably wants rinsing out.”

“No thank you, Martin. In fact, I just found a bee trapped in Jon’s office, I thought I’d take it out and release it. If you’ll excuse me...”

The footsteps start up again, and Jon slumps against the wall of his prison as it begins to sway. The sugary smell is all around him—all _over_ him—so strong that it’s overwhelming. His mouth waters; his stomach grumbles. Absently, he pops two fingers into his mouth and starts to suck the sticky liquid from them. It tastes divinely sweet, and he slips another finger in, suckling hungrily. He licks one hand clean, then the other, then turns and presses himself against the inside of the mug, lapping at the sugary film that coats it. All thought of entrapment, of escape, slips away; the sweetness pervades his senses, washing away everything except the need to swallow as much as he can, dizzy with the taste and the smell. 

He is jolted to awareness as the flimsy floor drops away beneath his feet; he’s tumbled out of his prison onto a hard, wooden surface, blinking in the sudden light. The man is leaning over him again. _Elias,_ Jon thinks, because he heard the name earlier and because it feels _right,_ though who Elias is or what significance he holds is beyond his awareness. All he knows is that the man has deprived him of the sticky delights of the mug, and that is terribly unfair. Jon tells him so with an indignant squeak, posturing with his wings splayed to make himself as large as possible. Elias simply smiles. 

“You’re rather a mess, Jon,” he observes. “Apologies, but you left me with little choice.”

Jon looks down at himself. The fur covering his body is wet and sticky; he strokes a hand over the sugar-slick coating on his belly, and lifts it to his mouth to lick and suck. 

“Are you hungry?” asks Elias. “I’m sure this ordeal has taken a lot out of you. You are such a _little_ thing, after all.” 

Something in Jon feels like he should bristle at that comment, but it’s true. He _is_ a little thing, and it doesn’t seem sensible to object, even if he was capable of forming the words to do so. He jams his fingers further into his mouth, chasing the last traces of sweetness. 

“Wait here,” Elias tells him, and steps away across the room. Jon isn’t sure what else he would do other than wait. He could try to fly somewhere, maybe, but his wings feel soggy, drooping against his back, and if he stays here maybe Elias will put him back in the mug with the rest of the tea. He sits down a bit awkwardly—the furry protuberance of his rump is really quite inconvenient—and drags his fingers through the sticky coating on his belly again. 

Elias returns, and busies himself above Jon’s head. Jon pays him little attention, engrossed in combing the tacky residue from his fur, until suddenly a new wave of sweet scent washes over him, flooding his senses and making the saliva well around his tongue. He sways in its direction helplessly, and sees what Elias is maneuvering towards him: a cotton swab, dripping with orange-gold honey. Jon scarcely has time to open his mouth before it’s pushed against his face, the viscous honey pouring past his lips and smearing him from chin to eyebrows. He opens wide as he can and swallows greedily, feels it slide down his throat and settle in his belly, heavy and thick and _sweet sweet sweet._

“My, you are a greedy creature,” Elias murmurs from a distance as Jon grasps the shaft of the swab in his hands, immersing his whole face in the syrupy sweetness. “Be careful you don’t drown yourself.”

Jon pays him no mind, lost in the pleasure of the gooey nectar filling his mouth and his belly. It’s only when Elias tries to pull the treat away that he notices, clutches at it and hisses in protest. Elias shakes the cotton swab to dislodge him, and when Jon only clings harder, flicks at him with a large finger, sending him tumbling back onto his arse. Jon cries out mournfully, bereft, but moments later the swab returns, bearing a fresh load of honey. Jon scrambles forward on his knees and plunges his face into the liquid as it drips thickly over his chest and belly and thighs.

“You’re making a dreadful mess,” Elias notes curiously. “Look at you—absolutely _covered_ in it.”

Jon scarcely hears him, lost in a haze of blissful sweetness as he gulps honey greedily. He can feel his throat slick with sugar, the heavy, aching fullness in his belly, but he wants more, he _needs_ more. The honey soaked cotton is lifted slowly overhead, and he follows it, standing and stretching to reach it, clutching at it with both hands and letting the syrupy sweetness flow down his throat. 

“The morphological arrangement is interesting,” he hears Elias say above him. “Your normal anatomy still appears to be intact—” A second cotton swab approaches, and prods his torso. “—which is remarkable, considering the size differential. But then there are these specific _changes."_ The swab pokes hard at the protuberance from his rump, and Jon complains as best he can with his mouth still full, honey drooling out of his mouth and over his chin. 

“My apologies,” Elias says, amused. The cotton swab returns to his front and begins stroking his chest, over the tiny swell of his tits, sliding through the sugary slick that’s covering him. Jon feels his nipples harden as they’re fondled, warmth starting to stir down in the core of him. The new sensation spreads pleasantly through him as his belly swells fuller and fuller, and next time Elias lifts the honey away from his open mouth he makes only a token noise of protest. He’s so full now that it hurts, his belly round and stretched. Elias prods the swab into his bloated middle and Jon whimpers at the pressure. 

“Some bees can swallow more than half their own weight in nectar,” Elias comments. “Your capacity isn’t _quite_ that, but still impressive.”

He prods Jon’s distended belly again, before sliding it down into the sticky sweet mess that’s puddled between his thighs. The soft cotton, now soaked with honey, slides over Jon’s cock and down further, between the folds of his cunt. It feels good, and Jon lets it rub against him, spreading his legs apart so Elias can press between them. He feels hot all over now, an urgent sensation coiling between his hips. 

“Very good, Jon,” Elias purrs, as he straddles the cotton swab and rocks against it, grinding in circles as the hot feeling builds and builds, little gasps and whimpers escaping him. He whines with bliss as the feeling crests over, his hips stuttering and liquid heat pulsing in his groin. His legs buckle and he sags against the shaft for support, panting.

“Lovely,” Elias tells him, and Jon is oddly pleased at the praise. He’s so full, now, so heavy, and a pleasant lassitude is spreading through his limbs. He should sit down, he thinks, and he sinks carefully to the floor, one hand splayed across his bulging middle. Maybe resting for a while would be a good idea. 

Elias seems to think differently, however. His big finger nudges Jon, rolling him onto his front. He lands on his knees, his sticky face pressed to the wood, his heavy belly hanging beneath him. He groans at the shifting pressure, then squeaks in surprise as the cotton swab prods at him from behind again, nudging between his thighs to spread them open. It’s soaked with honey and his own slick, and Elias trails it firmly up and down over the swollen lips of his cunt. Jon sighs and rocks back into the pressure, because it feels very nice. That delicious heat is starting to coil low between his hips again, sending out sparks that curl his toes and stiffen his nipples. 

He struggles feebly when Elias takes hold of him, finger and thumb pinching around his hips, but he’s so heavy now, torpid and full and dazed with pleasure, it’s difficult to remember why he doesn’t want to be touched. The head of the cotton swab nudges harder against his entrance, and he realizes with a vague sort of dismay that Elias is trying to push it inside him. _It’s too big,_ he thinks, but there is no further action that comes along with that thought, and it slips away before he can examine it any more closely. The swab presses into him, slick and soft and huge, spreading the lips of his cunt wider and wider, the aching stretch a counterpoint to the ponderous weight of his belly. 

_No, no, no,_ he thinks, but it comes out as little gasps, his wings fluttering in distress, his hips moving helplessly as the swab drives slowly, slowly deeper. It feels enormous inside him, and he whines long and low as his cunt stretches to accommodate it, as it fills him so deep he can barely breathe. 

“Wonderful,” Elias murmurs, and then begins to move the swab, in and out with tiny motions that make Jon’s hips buck, his whole body sparking with sensation and sweet, aching tension coiling at his core. Elias releases his hips and slides one finger beneath Jon, holds it there and lets Jon rut against it, the friction of Elias’ skin against his cock dragging desperate whimpers from his throat. The hot feeling curls tighter and tighter inside him, and then snaps, releasing all at once in a wave of hysterical bliss. A thready wail escapes Jon as his cunt clenches around the thick shaft filling him, his body spasming against Elias’ finger. The aftershocks of climax shudder through him for several moments, leaving him limp and pliant as Elias withdraws the cotton swab from his cunt. 

“You’ve done so well, Jon,” Elias tells him, gently flipping him over onto his back. “It’s almost a pity you won’t remember this.” Jon blinks up at him hazily, sprawled helplessly beneath the weight of his enormous belly. It takes him a few seconds to recognize the big, fleshy shape that moves into view above him; it’s Elias’ penis. There's something very wrong here, Jon is sure, but right now he can't bring himself to feel more than mild dismay about it. Elias smiles down at him. 

“You’re such a mess already. I’m sure you won’t mind a little more.”

His hand curls around the flushed, rigid length and he strokes it rapidly, his breath coming harsh and fast. Soon, with a soft groan, his semen spills down, splashing in thick, hot globs across Jon’s face and body. Jon makes a sharp noise of complaint, wiping the worst of the gooey mess from his face. It smells _terrible,_ the musky odor drowning out the scent of honey; the feel of it against his skin makes him feel vaguely sick, though he isn't entirely sure why.

“Very good,” says Elias. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up—it wouldn’t do to return you to your office in this state.”

Things grow muddled after that, as Elias fetches warm water and soft cloths and begins to wipe Jon clean from head to toe, cradling him carefully in his hands. Jon doesn't have it in him to resist anymore, lets Elias pick him up and handle him as he will. His whole body is sore and sated, his limbs slack, his belly heavy and his mind drifting fuzzily. Elias talks as he works, and Jon makes some effort to listen to the words—truly he does—but their significance is beyond him, flying as far over his head as the rest of the world seems to be doing today. 

“I think I’ll hang onto the book,” he hears Elias say. “I know one or two people who could use a...change of perspective. Temporarily, of course.” 

Jon doesn’t understand what he means, and has no way to ask, so he just curls into the cradle of Elias’ palm and closes his eyes, leaving it to Elias to decide what’s next. He is only a little thing, after all. 

*

Jon wakes with a crick in his neck and the oddest feeling he’s forgotten something. He sits up and looks around at the familiar confines of his office; he fell asleep at his desk again, of course. He sighs, and reaches for his mug of tea—probably cold by now. It’s not there at all, and he frowns. Martin must have taken it while he was asleep. 

“What time is it?” he wonders aloud. His watch tells him it’s eight in the morning, which is...impossible, because he doesn’t remember working into the night. He remembers having lunch, and then Martin bringing him a cup of tea around four, while he was working on the Wilmott case, and then— 

_And then…?_

Jon blinks, and picks up his glasses from the desk to settle them on his nose. He waggles his mouse to wake up his computer, which also tells him it’s eight o’clock Thursday morning. He’s lost...a _number_ of hours, somewhere. 

“That’s probably a cause for concern,” he mutters. Probably the sort of thing you should see a doctor about, or at least try to work fewer hours so you don’t burn out from exhaustion. Probably a sign that he should try to get a life, so he spends less time fixated on the utterly ridiculous cases that come across this desk. Like that Wilmott thing...what was that again? He reaches for the file on his desk, and flips it open, skimming the case notes. 

Sean Wilmott was found wandering naked along the side of a motorway, and claimed he had no memory of getting there; the last thing he remembered was being in his flat the previous day. Drugs and alcohol were ruled out, and he had no history of mental illness. His flat was found to be locked from the inside. The only method by which he could have left was an open fifth floor window. He came to the Institute to give a statement because, according to him, ever since the incident he had been having recurring dreams about bees. Along with the statement, he handed in a book on beekeeping that he had purchased shortly before his experience, which he thought was somehow connected. The book was determined not to be from the library of Jurgen Leitner, and the case was quickly archived. 

“Where _is_ that?” Jon wonders, casting about. He’s sure he took the book out of storage— _mundane_ storage—where it seemed that nobody had glanced at it since its arrival. But it’s not on his desk now. He looks under a stack of papers. Perhaps one of the others borrowed it—or Martin tidied it away, more likely, returned it to storage. He doesn’t think there’s anything to it, but Jon is nothing is not thorough. He scribbles a post-it note reminding himself to go and fetch it later, and adds it to the dozen others on his computer monitor. It’s difficult to find time for anything, these days. 

It _is_ rather coincidental, though, that he was reading a case about missing time, and now he seems to have no clear idea of what he did between yesterday afternoon and— 

“Oh, morning Jon!” Martin greets as he opens the door, startling Jon almost out of his chair. He readjusts in his seat, frowning.

“Yes, good morning Martin. It’s polite to knock, you know.” 

“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be in, after you weren’t feeling well yesterday.”

Jon blinks at him, confused. “I wasn’t—sorry?” 

“Umm, when you went home early? Elias said you weren’t feeling well, so you’d be taking the rest of the afternoon off.”

“Ahh, right, I...uh, I—” 

Could he have worked himself so far into exhaustion that he doesn't recall going home? Or was he actually sick—feverish, maybe? Did Elias have to cover for him? Oh, lord, Jon hopes he didn’t do anything embarrassing, after the trust Elias has placed in him with the Head Archivist position. Jon feels very small, suddenly, a hot, shrinking feeling at the thought that he might have humiliated himself. And if he _did_ go home, why did he wake up in his office—did he come back here during the night? Sleep walking, perhaps?

Jon shakes his head. He can worry about that later—maybe he can ask Elias about it. 

Or maybe not. Maybe best just to pretend nothing happened at all. It's far from the only odd thing that's happened around here. Between the strange cases that will only record to tape, that growing, creeping sense of being watched, the unpleasant dreams he's begun having...well, bees would be an improvement. 

“Jon? Are you...okay?” Martin is frowning at him with concern, and Jon gathers his composure sternly. Last thing he needs to do is fall apart at eight in the morning. 

“I—yes, Martin, I’m fine. Thank you. Feeling much better.”

“Good!” Martin smiles. “I was just going to make a cup of tea—would you like one?” 

There’s a flash of something through Jon’s mind: a memory of sweetness, heavy and overwhelming; a syrupy thick taste in his mouth; soft, bone-deep bliss. It’s gone again before he can grasp it, but it leaves him feeling shaken. Martin is still looking worried, so he forces a smile onto his face. 

“Y-yes, a cup of tea sounds nice,” he says. “With, uh, with extra sugar, please.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't use honey as lube, it's a very good way to get a very nasty infection.
> 
> Find me @cuttoothed on tumblr or @cut2th on twitter


End file.
